


Livid Husbands and Blown Up Bedrooms

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Crack, Almost smut, I COULDN'T HELP IT, I'm fucking shameless, M/M, This was for a friend, it's enough but it's also not, it's like a strip tease, sorry - Freeform, you know who you are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had an 'incident', and attempts to make up for it, with roses and kind words. Ridiculousness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Livid Husbands and Blown Up Bedrooms

**Author's Note:**

> This took less than thirty minutes to bust out, be gentle. ;-;
> 
> ((YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHO YOU ARE AND THIS IS FOR YOU JESUS CHRIST IM SO SORRY XD))

John was fumbling with jacket pocket, pettily attempting to gather his keys, and get inside the flat, rather than out in the ridiculously nipping cold. However, things were never that simple, were they?

“John!”

A call, well, honestly, it was more a pathetic shout, from a stumbling, tripping over his one-size-too-large feet, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s most idiotic consulting detective, when in trouble. Oh, this wasn’t good. He had roses. Roses and a pretty flushed face. All right, so the flushed face was involuntary, but John still felt touched. Or worried. Maybe both. Probably both. Always both.

“John,” Sherlock began brightly, out of breath, with a raspy rumble of a baritone, one that made John melt in his shoes.

“Y-Yes?” Good, John, yeah, squeaking out a reply, brilliant work. Be sure to praise yourself later for that, you goddamn berk.

“First, take these.” Sherlock presented the roses, a whole dozen of them - wow, Sherlock, nice number, all even and symmetrical, fantastic work, very creative -, and worried his lower lip. God, he wasn’t even _attempting_ to be convincing.

“All right... Am I missing an anniversary or did you blow something up?”

Sherlock swallowed dryly. Hard and dry, and utterly unhelpful.

“You blew something up, didn’t you?”

“Now, John, listen to me. It was entirely unintentional, but—”

“What did you blow up, Sherlock? Be honest now, no epics.”

“Our bedroom.”

“Our _what_?”

“John, please, don’t be irrational.”

“Irra—William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, you blew up our bedroom, our _only_ bedroom, without my permission to even experiment _in_ there, and you’re telling me to not be irrational?”

John shoved the roses to Sherlock’s chest, petals fluttering to the ground sadly. He turned his heel sharply, and worked the key into the lock, until it clicked and loosened, unlocking the door properly. And, with an exasperated huff, kicked the door ajar, and pushed the lanky detective in with him.

“Show me how bloody bad it is. Now.”

Captain voice was leaking out. That is certainly a bit not good.

Sherlock scurried and fumbled around his livid husband, bustling into the flat, and halting abruptly, in the centre of the sitting room, clasping his hands submissively behind his back, and hanging his head, seemingly regrettably.

“Open the door.” John wet his lips, his arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes were boring into Sherlock, searing through him, and Sherlock shivered, having to bite back a sweet, breathy sigh. He padded over to the door, and gulped for air, his cheeks a prominent crimson, the rosy-red color seeping up to the tips of his ears, across his nose, and even spotting along his neck, hidden beneath that damned scarf.

“Sherlock. The door.”

Damn. If John wasn’t so gorgeously fuming, Sherlock would’ve been on him by now. He gestured John closer, and the man complied, despite himself.

“John, approach mindfully. It may not be as bad as you think it to be.” Sherlock piped up, peeking a glimpse at John, but soon concentrating on gnawing at his lower lip, rather than his husband’s cautiously calm expression. John gave an uninterested roll of his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose, whilst grasping the doorknob, but stopping abortly.

“Sherlock, is that...” John’s words died on his tongue, as he hurriedly nudged the door ajar, his suspicions, indeed, despite his better judgement, deemed correct.

The bedroom had been entirely done up, extravagantly so. Candles - vanilla scented, John’s absolute favourite, and the initiator of John’s skepticism about anything being blown up -, were littered across closets and bedside tables. A messy trail of rose petals, sprawled on the hardwood, led to the scattering of little red dots across the crisp, ivory bedspread.

“You lying tosser.” No, John, insults aren’t honest when you’re grinning like a bloody fool.

Sherlock tipped his head, gazing down at John, with a lazy smirk, all haughty and pompous. Sexy sod, how dare he.

“You planned this.”

“You shag better when you’re angry.”

John had to brace his hand over his mouth, to stifle his laughter.

“Y-You did all this, just to get me to shag you, all fired up and about to blow my top?”

“Well, yes. I like when you’re rough.”

“You’re adorable, oh my God.”

“Shut it.”

“You’re so cute, Sherlock, come here,” John gripped the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff, and tugged him down, kissing him too quickly, for the giggles still distracted him.

“Stop laughing. It’s embarrassing, John, really.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll be serious now, honest.”

“I sure hope so. But, if you’re going to be all serious now, I’d prefer if you were without your clothes. They’ll an awful accessory on you.”

“Oh, really? I quite liked them. Shame. Might as well toss ‘em, then, if you hate my little ensemble.”

“Mm, sounds like a splendid idea.”

“Yours is going with it.”

“Gladly.”

The coats were shrugged off shoulders, the trousers were shamelessly half-unbuttoned, rather than off entirely, and John had, somehow, ended up on his back - on the mattress, thankfully -, legs wrapped tight around Sherlock’s waist, as the very breath was snogged off his lips.

“S-Sherlock, oh God,”

“Fuck, yes, oh Christ, John,”

“N-No, no, S-Sherlock, this is bad, this is very bad,” John hurriedly stammered, faltering and fumbling. Sherlock tore himself away from John’s pornographic lips, staring, pupils dark and wide.

“What is it?”

John hesitated, for a horrifically dragging moment.

“I forgot the milk.”


End file.
